Role Reversal
by Trinitas
Summary: "Even for Wilson, cutting out a lobe of his liver for Self-Important Jerk…" House ruminates by Wilson's bedside. Post-ep for 6.10: "Wilson."


**Role Reversal**

He'd always known Wilson to be a self-sacrificing idiot—hell, he's often exploited the fact—but sitting beside Wilson's hospital bed as Wilson sleeps off the aftereffects of surgery, he can't help feeling that even for Wilson, cutting out a lobe of his liver for Self-Important Jerk…

There was no trouble in the O.R. The incision was neatly made, neatly closed after a textbook surgery; it'll heal fine, although Wilson will get a nice angular scar for his trouble. Ninety percent of his liver will regenerate within a year. And soon enough, he'll wake up and House can tell him the Jerk will recuperate and (predictably) go home with his little blonde family-wrecker.

First that speech he wanted to throw away his career over, now totally unnecessary major surgery? What the hell is wrong with him lately?

He makes certain allowances: of course Wilson is going to care personally about every one of his patients; of course he's going to shed tears over every bald little terminal cancer kid; of course he's going to clutter up his office with mementos, because he really _does_ remember all of the casualties by name. But this was a personal best in Caring Too Much, even by warped Wilsonian standards.

He shouldn't have been treating Self-Important Jerk in the first place: he wasn't objective; he wasted time looking for zebras while the horse was right there in the damn stable—right where House had said it would be. And double-dosing on the chemo…

House wouldn't have done that. He'd have told the guy to take his completely obvious disease and enjoy his last six months. And so would Wilson, if he'd had his head on straight.

He'd seen the guy for maybe five days in the last five years since he'd cured his damn leukemia. That's not friendship; that's a vaguely friendly acquaintance. And yet he'd followed his guilt right under the knife and risked his neck, risked abandoning House, for a guy who'll waltz right out with his undeserved liver lobe and who never even knew Wilson, never mind given a damn about him.

He could understand Chase's risking life in prison for those two million Sitibi: one life isn't worth two million. Practical calculation. But when it comes down to your own life versus a stranger's, or a friend's life versus that stranger's—one person versus one other person, no skewing weight of massive numbers—there's a biological imperative to choose your welfare or your friend's. Straightforward Darwinian science, and of _course_ Wilson had to defy it.

And House can't help feeling betrayed: okay, odds were against Wilson's dying on the table, but it could've happened. Bad enough that Wilson apparently thought that was an acceptable risk to take for a dying practically-stranger. Worse that he'd thought leaving House alone was an acceptable risk: he can't have deluded himself to the point of believing that House would or could rebound from that.

Wilson is his confidante, his sounding board, his partner-in-crime, the Watson to his Holmes. Always, always in his corner, even when lecturing with his hands on his hips. Always _there_, regardless of how many scathing comments or how much crap House throws at him.

So if he needs saving from himself, House can do that. If he has to keep a syringe of Ativan on hand to knock Wilson out with next time he starts thinking about giving away pieces of vital organs, he can do that. Because Wilson matters, and because this is a vigil House never wants to keep again.

There's the click of heels approaching, then Cuddy's voice from the doorway. "How is he?"

"Sleeping off his self-destructive, guilt-tripping insanity," House says, turning to look at her. "Funny you should care now: it didn't bother you when he was pulling all kinds of me-like crap to treat his _friend._" He almost spits the word. "He wasn't objective—"

"I let you get away with—"

"Yeah. And I can do it and it works, because I don't care about my patients. Wilson cares pathologically. And you should have left your shiny new personal life at home, seen that and pulled him off the damn case."

"He's a great doctor, House."

"But he's a seriously screwed up human being, or Ex-Dying Jerk would be home with a six-month expiration date."

She's quiet for a long moment. Then, "It was his choice."

"Which you enabled."

"Yes, but it was his choice." Quietly, "I know you were worried. He'll have as much time as he needs to recuperate from this, and if he ever tries something similar again, I'll convene the ethics committee."

House nods, satisfied: no way does a panel of sane people allow a doctor to hand out organs to his patients. They'd either shut Wilson's idiocy down or debate until the patient in question died. "Good."

Cuddy leaves the room, and House returns his attention to the still-oblivious, stupid, irreplaceable man in the bed and closes a hand around Wilson's: it's not the kind of thing he usually does, but Wilson can have an exception.

At least until he shows any sign of waking up.

**END.**


End file.
